Ritual
by hummerhouse
Summary: Even a leader must have time to himself. One shot. TCest references.


Ritual

He liked the very early morning best. That time just before the sun came up and changed the scent of the city with its warmth.

He liked the quiet stillness that he could practically wrap himself in as he stood atop the nearby roof; waiting for the lion that was his city to stretch and yawn and shake itself.

This was his daily ablution; hidden from his family, tucked into himself so he could have a private something that belonged to only him.

Since he rarely slept alone, slipping from the bed of whichever brother he'd spent the night with was a test of the ninja skills honed over a lifetime.

He enjoyed that challenge as well. They all knew he was an early riser, and as they were not, his silence was for the most part appreciated. There were times though that Raph considered it part of their personal competition to keep his older brother in bed a little longer. Escaping those emerald green clutches without disturbing their owner was a joyous victory.

He wasn't sure when this had become a ritual; a habit for him. There was simply a need one morning to breathe a lungful of fresh, clean air and he had left the lair without telling anyone that he was going topside. The glorious solitude and peace had been addictive.

Somewhere in that time he had added to his habit and begun to check on his family before he left them for his few moments of privacy.

That in and of itself was a challenge and he relished the touch of adrenaline that surged through his tightly strung body as he successfully moved from room to room; teaching stealth a lesson.

Raphael was a heavy sleeper; his snores filled the air around his room. Somehow though the red banded Turtle could feel the slightest shift in the air as he slept, and moving through his door always broke the steady cadence of Raph's breathing.

Holding as still and silent as possible he would wait until the snores resumed. He had never succeeded in getting close enough to the hammock to actually touch his brother, but some day he would manage even that.

Michelangelo was a work of art as he slept, his limbs and torso twisted at impossible angles. Perhaps this was what their sensei saw when he decided that the nunchakus were the best weapon for the youngest brother.

Approaching him meant stepping over and around the clutter that littered his bedroom. Trying to get that close wouldn't have been necessary except that one early morning Mikey had appeared to not be breathing.

Dread curled like a hungry snake in his throat as he rushed to his little brother's side. Fear made his hand shake as he pressed a finger to Mikey's pulse point only to hear a sharp intake of air in reaction to the touch. Watching Mikey's arms and legs shift into a new impossible position as he slept brought a flood of relief crashing over the eldest.

Since then touching Mikey as he slept became a need; no other part of the morning could be enjoyed without first feeling the warmth of his little brother's skin.

He didn't need a calendar to know he spent the majority of his nights in Don's bed, or with Don in his. Donatello's gentle tranquility was as essential as the early morning ritual itself.

Their love making was not as fierce as when he was with Raph, or as wild as Mikey's passion; it transcended all of them with its quiet intensity.

On those few mornings when he did not awaken next to Don he would oftentimes find the genius slumped over his keyboard, mumbling in his sleep some esoteric equation like an incantation meant to solve the world's ills.

As much as he would like to wake Don on those occasions and send him to his bed, he never did so. He knew that the brainiac would wake up stiff and sore if he didn't disturb him, but waking Don would mean the leader would have to forego his venture topside.

He willingly paid a self-imposed penance for his bit of selfish need. For every time he had left Don sleeping uncomfortably across his desk he would offer to massage his brother's neck and shoulders after their morning practice.

Don never questioned the periodic offer of that small luxury. Not one to complain about his aches and pains, Don must have been curious about the show of empathetic attention.

The eldest had attempted to look in on his father just once. Sliding open the shoji soundlessly; only one foot had crossed the sill before he looked up to see his father's eyes were on him.

His quietly murmured, "I'm sorry to disturb you sensei, I wanted to look in on you," was answered by an equally quiet, "Thank you my son."

His morning rounds went only as far as his father's door after that. He would stop there and lower his head; sensing and being sensed in return.

They had never discussed this morning ritual and probably never would. He was sure that his father knew that he was venturing topside alone. Being allowed this daily pilgrimage without questions was because his father understood his need.

Long before the sun peered over the horizon the shadows would begin to move and that was his signal to return to his home.

There were times when he could greet the sun as a friend, but those occasions were rare for a ninja of his ilk. The shadows were his lovers; the shadows and his brothers.

As much as he enjoyed his single taste of pure freedom and the cool touch of an early morning breeze he was never tempted away for long. The pull of his family and their love was much too strong.


End file.
